On the Rise
by Tora II
Summary: Inspired by KFP2. Pandas are not the only animals of black and white, Lord Shen's warriors encounter a white tiger. T for violence and descriptions of gore


Author's Note: My first attempt at a Kung Fu Panda fic. Inspired by the fact that pandas can't be the only black and white animals in China.

On the Rise

Lord Shen wiped his blade clean of blood, eyeing the burning village and the black and white lumps of unmoving flesh. 'A warrior of black and white,' he scoffed. 'They died easily enough. How could the old goat think that such fat, useless lumps of fur could ever challenge him?'

"Lord Shen!"

He looked up from the carnage to the goose messenger lighting on the red stained ground beside him. The goose shuddered as the warm liquid soaked his webbed feet, but still dropped to a knee as he held out a scroll to the white peacock.

"News from your warriors to the north," he said.

"Ah, Zhao," Shen murmured, with a smirk. A blood thirsty beta to Wolf Boss's alpha, he was just as thorough and vicious as his leader, without the odd sense of humor. Shen opened the scroll.

He'd divided his warriors, sending three other bands to the north, west and south to search for other warriors of black and white while he lead the attack on the Panda Village. He was not foolish enough to think that these were the only warriors with black and white fur. And from the contents of Zhao's message, he had been wise to do so.

_"Lord Shen,_

_We are currently pursuing a white tiger warrior called Bai Laohu. She has a fearsome reputation in the mountains, but I'm confident we will be able to neutralize her as a threat to your future. I will update you as soon as I am able,_

_Zhao."_

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Bai Laohu growled low in her throat and shifted into a ready stance, claws out and ready as the wolf bandits circled her.

"I have nothing for you to steal," she rumbled. "Leave me in peace, or I leave you in pieces."

The leader chuckled. That was the white tiger's only warning before the ring closed in and the wolves attacked. She whirled, striking one wolf in the throat, bowling him back into several of his comrades while another managed to bury the point of his spear in Bai Laohu's shoulder. With a roar of pain, she struck, kicking out at the attackers behind her while slashing the spear's owner across the throat with her claws. Another spear scored along her side, pain seared through her. She snarled caught a foot flying for her face and swung the unfortunate wolf in a circle, driving his brothers back. They continued to attack. Blood oozed through the fabric of her tunic, matting her fur, their weapons leaving her with small cuts and shallow stabs that wore at her strength like a wave rolling over a stone, gradually wearing it away to sand.

There were too many. She was a fierce and powerful warrior, but she was only mortal. These wolves were skilled at fighting in a group. One lunged forward, a feint, dodging out of the way of the tiger's strikes, only for a second or third to attack from another angle.

The battle was long, and as one by one the wolves died or were wounded, she grew slower, weaker. Blood matted her fur and her breathing was shallow and pained. One eye was blinded by a thrown knife, an ear sliced clean off by a half-dodged swipe from a sword. She could barely stand, but they were still coming.

She spared a thought for the precious bundle hidden in the brush some distance away and though her honor as a warrior screamed in protest, she tried to flee. She was a warrior who had never run from a battle, but she was also a mother. Her child's life was worth more than her honor.

The decision to retreat came too late. She leapt and used one wolf's face for a spring board as she tried to leap over the circle of killers. The leader cut her down just as she sprung over his head. A clean cut across the belly and she collapsed to the dirt, growling in agony. The finishing stroke sliced across the back of her neck, severing her spine, and sending a fresh wash of blood over the ground.

The wolf leader panted as he stepped back from the tiger's corpse, looking around at the carnage. A squad of thirty wolves were sent with him to the North, and only seventeen would return. Three would have to be carried on stretchers.

Even as he sent up a mournful howl for his fallen brethren, his surviving warriors adding their voices to his, he couldn't help but be impressed. The rumors had claimed that the White Tiger was a vicious fighter, and they had not lied. If anything, they had been understated. She had fought like a demon possessed and he could not help but feel a measure of respect for her, though that did not stop him from severing her head and leaving her corpse to rot where it had fallen.

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In the brush, a tiger cub, barely more than an infant, was roused from her sleep by a chorus of mournful howls that sent a shiver of fear up her spine. Silently, she pushed herself free of her blankets and slinked towards the sound, the smell of blood heavy in the air. Mother would be annoyed to find her gone, but she was too curious to give that much thought.

She came to the brush at the side of the road in time to see the wolf bandits piling dried sticks and brush on their gathered dead. The leader, larger than the others and sporting a bloodied, bulging sack tied at his waist, set a torch to the pyre.

The wood and brush caught quickly, the bodies less so, but soon the smoky scent of cooking meat, burning fur, and seared cloth spirals into the air. The wolves stayed to watch the pyre burn, and the cub watched them. Her muscles were tense and her fur bristled with some unnamed instinct that simultaneously screamed for her to stay hidden, to flee, and to attack. She was frozen in indecision and she did not move until the wolves left hours later, after the pyre had mostly burnt itself out.

When she could no longer hear them, she inched out of her hiding place to examine the scene. As she circled the pyre on all fours, she spotted a still form on the ground nearby. The dying light of the early evening did nothing to hinder her keen sight. The iron and salt scent of blood was mixed with the bitter rank of bile and she recognized the stained tunic instantly. She made no sound as she inched closer, silent tears leaked over her cheeks as she nuzzled the still, cool corpse. Her mother's fur was stiff with blood, and there was a gaping stump of gore where her head should have been. The cub was numb as she curled herself up against her mother's side, amber eyes wide and unseeing as night fell.

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It may have been days, or perhaps weeks, but eventually a merchant caravan of yaks crossed the mountain road and came upon the scene. The cub was thin, near death, and her amber eyes were glassy with fever. The corpse was rank with rot, maggots starting to form in the open wounds. There was little discussion as the old merchant, a white yak with a scraggly beard and curled horns, leaned down to lift the cub in his hooves as his sons moved to find shovels among their packs. The cub clung to the remains of her mother's tunic, but she was so weak with hunger and grief that it was easy for him to pry her loose. The yaks buried the white tiger, while the merchant's daughter tried to coax milk into the emaciated cub.

The yaks moved on, heading south along their trade route towards the Valley of Peace. The cub took food reluctantly, and made no sound. The merchant's daughter did what she could for the child, but their nomadic life was no place for an orphaned cub, especially not one so young. Their own children did not join them until they were teenagers and able to pull their own weight.

When the caravan passed through Bao Gu, the old merchant took the cub to the orphanage there. The cub had not made a sound the entire journey and she was just as silent when he handed her over to the matronly ewe that ran the orphanage. As he returned to the caravan the old merchant sent up a prayer to any listening deity that the child would find some measure of peace and happiness at the orphanage.

Over time, the cub regained her strength under the care of the matrons. At first, they were pleased at her progress, but her strength continued to grow as she did. They knew she did not hurt her playmates intentionally, but that did not stop the matrons or the other children from being afraid. She was a tiger. They were sheep, rabbits, geese, and pigs. They knew they could be prey.

Six years later, a red panda arrived at the orphanage with a pocket full on domino tiles.

_Fin._

Extra Notes: If anyone wants to protest a white tiger having an cub with Tigress's coloring, I'd like to point you towards the wiki entry on white tigers. The gene that produces the white coloring is recessive and a white tiger easily bear a cub with the more common orange, black and white coloring.

Ever since watching "Secrets of the Furious Five" I was desperately curious to find out how Tigress ended up in an orphanage, so I figured I'd write about it.

Also, "Bai Laohu" is Mandarin for "white tiger," according to google, anyway.

I hope you enjoyed! Constructive criticism is more than welcome.


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